


Bent

by equestrianstatue



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: When Gene shopped Harry Outhwaite in 1953, he didn’t know the rules.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Set during episode 1x04.

The first thing you learn is that there’s the law and there’s the rules. The law’s the law: you break it, you pay your dues. But you break the rules, you’re in deep shit. You pay for it, and so does everyone else. You’re nothing. Out on your arse. Not a friend in the world.

When Gene shopped Harry Outhwaite in 1953, he didn’t know the rules. Not just the rules that say you die before you betray a fellow officer. (Let alone your partner.) (Let alone a war hero and legend of decades’ standing who did more for his country with his little finger than you’ll ever accomplish in your sorry life.) But the rules that keep a city ticking over. You need a steady hand at the top of the criminal food chain, just as much as you need one at the top of the Force: any copper with half a brain could tell you that. And after Outhwaite died, the kingdom crumbled. The gangster that had been running the show, with Outhwaite and and plenty of others in his pocket, upped sticks and cleared out. Total chaos. There was a bloody battle for the top spot, and meanwhile, no informants for love nor money. Nobody accountable to anyone, across the whole stinking underbelly of the city. No tip-offs. No mercy. Carnage.

When Stephen Warren arrived, it was a bloody relief. Gene was older then. He knew a business opportunity when he saw one, as did Warren, obviously. Checks and balances. They both understood the game. 

Warren’s club isn’t exactly Gene’s scene, but the whisky’s decent and the birds look like they wash. Gene had thought that Sam would hate it. Thought he’d have to strongarm him into staying put— staying anywhere with the possibility of having _fun_ , no less— for long enough for Warren to consider his free pass accepted. Thought Sam was a bit old for it, besides. Not his scene either. But Sam looked different in there, when Gene came down the stairs from the office and saw him dancing. Actually dancing, arms and legs and all. Jacket off. Gene could imagine him younger, then. He must have gone to parties. Had a good time, once. Not often you see that in him now.

Warren isn’t a monster. Not a very nice man, but a man all the same. And a queer, but there isn’t much can be done about that. (Not even a banging-up offence any more. So much for a chink in the armour. He’s still a bit chippy about it, mind. Most of them are.) Warren keeps his soldiers in line, and if they step out of it, he apologises. It’s only fair that Gene should give him the same courtesy. It’s an arrangement that keeps everyone happy. Warren gives them the nod that night on the hippies, Gene gets a collar, Warren gets rid of a nuisance, and who loses? Nobody. Except the hippies, obviously. Which is a bonus.

The address is on a crumpled piece of paper in Gene’s coat pocket. He and Sam go down there along by the canal. Funny sort of place. Life and death all mixed together. Gene used to come this way with Harry, his first few weeks on the beat, getting a tour of the city in all its glory. Junkies, prozzies, kids screwing under the bridge. Bodies in the water.

It’s quiet down here tonight, though. Nobody here but them. Sam’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers and he’s humming under his breath. Something that was playing earlier. Barely music they listen to now, just a crash-bang-wallop of a noise. No wonder it drives them all wild. All right if you’re in the mood for it, maybe. Gene’d had a good enough time, dancing with Warren’s bird, Warren’s drink in his hand. Sam behind him, back to back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Almost collided with each other. A patch of heat through the sweat of both their shirts, just for a second. Then it was gone. Just the noise and the whisky in the back of his throat. Gene wonders what happened to easy listening.

The water slaps agains the stone bank by their feet. Gene made one of his first collars down here. Two of them, actually. A couple of pansies. One of them tried to make a break for it, and Outhwaite got an elbow to the stomach, wheezing and doubled over. Gene was faster then. He brought the lad back, handcuffed. Outhwaite spat at the boy’s feet. “Disgusting,” he said, to Gene.

Broke Gene’s heart, when he found out Harry was on the take. Broke it again when he topped himself. Until then Gene had been under the mistaken impression that turning him in had been the right thing to do. Difficult, but right. As if anything could have been worth the old boy swinging from the rafters. Stupid bloody idiot.

Not worth thinking about. Gene watches Sam humming his song, walking in time with it. He’s starting to let his hair grow out. Looks scruffy.

Say what you like about Sam— and Gene does, most days— he always comes through in a pinch. He might moan about being dragged out to a squat to do a job that uniform could have handled with their hands tied behind their backs, but he does manage to stop Gene from getting a good kicking. Not that Gene couldn’t have taken the three scrawny buggers himself if he’d had to. Afterwards, Sam won’t let up about what he calls a potentially serious head wound, and what Gene calls a refreshing pick-me-up. Didn’t even knock him out. True, Gene might be feeling a bit woozy, but he’s felt worse than this any night at the week after a lock-in at the Railway Arms, which is why he suggests that’s where they head next.

“You shouldn’t be drinking with that,” Sam says. They’re in the street, watching uniform struggling to fit a roomful of electricals and three stupid hippies into two squad cars. ”You should go home.”

“Don’t be such a girl.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Am not.”

“Look—” says Sam. Gene feels a little needle-point of pain where Sam’s fingers have reached out to touch the side of his head. He pulls away.

“Give over.”

There’s a smear of blood on Sam’s fingertips, and he holds them up, eyebrows raised. Evidence. Gene snorts in frustration.

“That’s not bleeding. That’s a scratch.”

Sam sighs and shrugs. He doesn’t push it. For once. And for all his holier-than-thou act, it’s him who says what a shame it is they can’t lighten uniform’s load a little by taking one of the TVs to the pub.

Well, why not? Perk of the job. Same as anybody. You work for a travel agent, you get cheap holidays. You work for the council, you get your parking tickets waved away. You put your miserable life on the line every single day for a city that spits it all back in your face, you get a telly for the local. Who loses? And if Sam’s going to make a song and dance about the roll of notes in his pocket after agreeing to that, well, there’s hypocrisy for you.

Smiling and taking the money isn’t selling out. It’s buying in. Joining the big boys. It’s not about protecting yourself. It’s about protecting everyone and everything around you, and every fragile scrap of peace that holds this city together. It’s not nice, the first time you have to do it. Nothing is. But it gets easier. Doesn’t even cross Gene’s mind, these days.

Sam’s still moping at the bar past chucking-out time, and Gene needs a word. Nelson’s clearing up, so he goes to wait out the back, the way Sam walks home. And sure enough, a few minutes after Nelson goes whistling away up the street, Sam pushes the back door open and steps outside.

“What?” he says, when he sees Gene. He sounds tired. Gene’s tired too. Tired in a way that makes him feel a bit thick and fuzzy. Maybe Sam wasn’t talking complete bollocks about the crack on the head. Not that it matters.

“You’re going to do something stupid,” says Gene. “Like you always do. So I thought that before that happens, we ought to talk about exactly how bloody stupid you’d have to be to do it.”

Sam says, “I’m going home.”

He starts to walk away, but Gene takes hold of him by the arm and pulls him back. Only way you can get him to listen, half the time. Sam looks down at Gene’s hand on him like it’s a shock, though he ought to be used to it enough by now. He tries to wrench his arm away, but Gene holds on. Easy. Sam can’t be trying that hard.

Funny to see Sam take a proper swing at someone else, earlier. Not that Gene actually saw it, since he was busy lying on the ground stopping the odious little scrote from kicking him in the face, but he heard the thud as he went down. When Gene pulled himself up again Sam was sucking on his middle knuckle, face scrunched up with pain, other arm waving at the two of them left on the sofa, like he could keep them there just by thinking it hard enough. Fair play to him, they stayed put. Didn’t fancy their chances. For a bloke that thought violence was beneath him, Sam wasn’t half handy in a fight.

Shame he won’t put it to good use most of the time. No wonder he walks around with his knickers in such a twist. What does he expect if he won’t get it all out of his system with a good punch-up now and again? That’s normal. Healthy. It’s the only reason Gene stands for it when Sam lets it out on him instead. Only way to keep the man from going more insane than he already is. Not many DCIs would let him. You dare take a swing at your superior officer, most would have you out on your ear before you could say Jack Robinson. Sam’s lucky to have someone who’ll pay him back for it double instead. It works, and all. Sam walks looser afterwards, bloody nose and a black eye maybe, but not so tense. More likely to come for a drink that night. 

Sam’s weighing up whether or not to fight him now. Gene can see it in his eyes, clear as anything. Could be a struggle, a shove, a knee to the stomach. But he’s tired. He stays where Gene’s holding him, and says, again, “ _What_?”

“Just don’t go being a prick, you understand?” Something clenches in Sam’s jaw, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s listening. “How happy you all must be in Hyde, where nobody gets their hands dirty, and all of you are equally insufferable about it, I’m sure. But here in the real world, things are a little more complicated. And if you get it into your head that it’s worth destroying years of good work, just because you want to wear the white hat— well. I wouldn’t want to be you, is all I’m saying.”

Sam stares at him. “Is that a threat?”

“No, you idiot. I’m trying to stop you from putting yourself straight back on Warren’s naughty list. Now, I’ve patched things up nicely for you, and I’m not expecting a thank you, but I am expecting you to to be decent enough not to throw it back in my face.”

Sam laughs, short and disbelieving. He shakes his arm away, and this time, Gene lets go. “This isn’t about _you_ ,” Sam says. “Sorry, but I’m not going to go home and forget all about Stephen Warren because you might be upset if I don’t.”

Hopeless case. Gene can feel himself running up against a brick wall, like he does whenever Sam gets too stubborn to see straight. There’s a niggling little ache at one side of his head, and he can taste the beginning of tomorrow’s hangover. He’s had enough.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Gene says.

He turns around and walks away. But just as he’s reaching the corner of the back street, Sam says, “Sorry.”

Gene stops. Must be hearing things. Can’t think of anything less likely to come out of Sam’s mouth any time in the next fifty years. But he turns back around again.

“Sorry, I was wrong,” Sam says, and Gene’s jaw is almost on the floor with the shock, but then he carries on, “This _is_ about you. You’re my DCI. This isn’t acceptable. I can’t take orders from somebody who is in the pay of a known criminal.”

Gene pauses before he walks back to Sam. He’s tired, still, but there’s something else sitting there in his insides, angry and hard. Angry with everyone. Sam, obviously, but Warren, too. And Outhwaite. And everyone that keeps this whole grisly relic of a system up and running.

“Is that right?” Gene says. His voice comes out very calm, somehow. “What are you going to do about it? Turn me in?”

There’s a long pause. Then Sam says, “Maybe.”

“All right,” says Gene. “You do that.”

They look at each other. Two foot of space between them. Sam’s got his hands hanging loose by his sides. Not fists, not spoiling for a fight. Not saying it to make him angry. But Gene doesn’t believe him, all the same. Sam is a better man than Gene was at nineteen. And than Gene is now. Of course the rules don’t apply to him. He doesn’t even know what the rules are. But he won’t betray him. Doesn’t matter if Gene deserves it. He just won’t. 

Eventually, Sam looks down and away. Gene nods, once, and clears his throat. “Right. Good.”

But then Sam says, “You’d thank me if I did. Eventually. You hate it too.”

That hard thing in Gene’s belly flares hot and furious, and for a moment, he can barely think. As if Sam has any, _any_ idea. “You stuck-up little shit,” he says, and closes the gap between them before he’s even decided to move. He has Sam by the shoulders. Sam’s not expecting it, and Gene moves him under his hands like it’s nothing. He pushes him up agains the back wall of the pub, and Sam grunts when he hits it, but he doesn’t fight back.

“You’re lying to yourself,” says Sam.

“Shut your mouth.”

But Sam already has his mouth shut. He’s breathing through his nose, bottom lip jutting out. Muscles moving in his neck as he swallows. Chain of his St Christopher glinting in the darkness.

Gene keeps him exactly where he is. Feels like his hands are locked on to him. He’s breathing on Sam’s face, hot and harsh, whisky and cigar smoke. But Sam doesn’t wrinkle his nose up. He’s looking Gene in the eye. Like Gene is doing something mad. Sam’s the mad one. He’s from somewhere else entirely. Different rules.

“Guv?” Sam says, very quietly.

Gene kisses him. It feels like not only his heart but maybe his liver and his stomach are trying to climb out of his throat. Hard, shaking, terrifying. He can feel the cracks of the leather in Sam’s jacket under his fingers, digging in to his shoulders. After a moment, he feels one of Sam’s hands against his chest, resting against his shirt. Not pushing him away. Just there. Sam opens his mouth.

There’s something completely alive about Sam, something burning bright and hot inside him. It’s all Gene can think about. He doesn’t think about the street around the corner, lamps and cars and maybe people stumbling home. Doesn’t think about Warren. Doesn’t think about being down by the canal, the side of Sam’s face in the light reflected off the water.

It’s rough and messy. Gene’s out of practice. Sam is kissing him like he hasn’t kissed anyone in months. Years. Christ, maybe he hasn’t. He’s got his hands under Gene’s coat, warm through his shirt. Like he just wants to touch somebody. And Gene wants— Gene wants— he doesn’t think about it. But he shoves one hand downwards and starts unbuckling his belt.

When he pulls his cock out, he panics, at first. The cold, the madness of it. He can’t even get it up. Sam is staring at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open and red. But then he reaches down and wraps his hand around Gene, and Gene grunts and closes his eyes and doesn’t stop him.

He means to keep his eyes shut. But when he looks again, Sam is pulling both of them off at the same time, one in each hand. Gene can’t speak, can’t think, doesn’t want to touch Sam’s cock, can’t possibly want to, but he reaches out for it, puts his hand around Sam’s. Sam makes a funny soft noise in the back of his throat, and his head falls back against the wall. Shuts his eyes for a moment too. Deep breaths like he’s drowning. Gene’s rock hard.

Gene lets go of him again before Sam gets anywhere close to coming. Lets him finish himself off. Kisses him again while he does it, feels him going still, and then gasping into his mouth. His hand on Gene slows down at first, afterwards, but then it picks up again. Then he changes hands, and it’s even faster, slicker. Sam’s come on his cock. Gene chokes, and then it’s over. Gets off in Sam’s hand with a quiet groan.

Gene stays still while he catches his breath, while he comes back down to earth. He puts himself away. Sam does the same. He feels a bit like he’s going to heave up. Sam won’t take his eyes off him, still leaning there against the wall, his chest rising and falling. “Gene?” he says, eventually.

Gene opens his mouth. Closes it again. He says, “I’m not a poof.”

Sam lets out a little breath of startled laughter. Then he covers his face with both of his hands. He’s still laughing, quietly, in that slightly manic way that usually makes Gene feel on edge. Right now, it makes him feel homicidal.

“Sure,” Sam says, after a moment, his hands falling to his sides. Then he sees Gene, close to shaking with fury, fists half-raised. Sam swallows and holds his hands up in the air. “Whoa, whoa. All right. All right.”

“If you _dare_ tell a soul— ”

Sam makes a motion with his hands, still in the air, shakes his head. He almost laughs again, but bites it back. “Who am I going to tell?”

“I don’t care. They can be deaf, blind, mute and in a coma, and they’re still not going to hear a word of it from you, you understand?”

“Is _that_ a threat?”

“Yes, it bloody well is.”

“All right then.”

Gene nods, and he lets his hands fall to his sides. Skin prickling. There’s a bottle of Grant’s at home. Enough left in it to stop him thinking about the sound of Sam’s breath catching in his ear. Or Warren’s smile whenever Gene walks into a room, cold and self-satisfied. The sheriff at his beck and call. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it.

“Gene,” Sam says, but Gene has already turned away. “Please. Come on. Wait.”

“Leave it, Tyler,” Gene says. He means it to sound final, firm, but his voice comes out rough. He doesn’t know why. When he walks away, Sam doesn’t stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, you can reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/155298396662/bent-equestrianstatue-life-on-mars-uk)!


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